the-secret-crusade-oliver-bowden

to the edge of the roof. He saw the two bodies, blood still spreading.
Further away, most of the men seemed either to have congregated at the
entrance to the keep or were leaving for the outer curtain, no doubt keen
to put as much distance between themselves and de Montferrat as
possible.
Below him de Montferrat tutted in displeasure, still rattling through
the papers, unable to find what he was looking for. He groaned as a wad
of them slid from the table to the ground. About to call for assistance he
thought better of it and bent to retrieve them. Perhaps he heard the
snick of Altaïr’s blade in the split-second between Altaïr leaping from the
walkway above and embedding it in his neck.
Then the Assassin was straddling the Acre leader’s body, his hand
over his mouth so as not alert others in the courtyard. He had just
moments, he knew, whispering, ‘Rest now. Your schemes are at an end.’
‘What do you know of my work?’ croaked de Montferrat.
‘I know that you were going to murder Richard – and claim Acre for
your son, Conrad.’
‘For Conrad? My son is an arse, unfit to lead his host, let alone a
kingdom. And Richard? He is no better, blinded as he is by faith in the
insubstantial. Acre does not belong to either of them.’
‘Then to whom?’
‘The city belongs to its people.’
Altaïr fought the now-familiar sense of his world taking an
unexpected lurch. ‘How can you claim to speak for the citizens?’ he said.
‘You stole their food. Disciplined them without mercy. Forced them into
service under you.’
‘Everything I did, I did to prepare them for the New World,’ replied